general

I was messing about with WordPress templates and this was the least worst of the freebies (don’t get used to it as I’ll no doubt change my mind). The current trend of clashing typefaces and over-sized headings upsets my sense of balance. I’m no graphic artist but it’s almost worth blowing my anonymity to buy a customisable template.

Happy new year and I wish you good health and many opportunities for misadventure. I’ll do my best to revert from amateur-level analysis of typography and return to professional-league smut. I think the Country Boy is working one day next week when his workplace will be quiet; perhaps this will be an opportunity to pay a visit.

Lately it feels like everyone except my partner and lover have had access to my private parts but the contexts could not have been less sexual.

My sports physician is a tall, dark and handsome sort with an athlete’s body and the drool-worthy addition of speaking with one of my favourite accents; it would be easy to envy this doctor-with-the-lot if he weren’t so humble and likeable to boot. I have to strip to the bare essentials to do the mobility and flexibility drills and I am embarrassed about the stored fat on my body while semi-naked and contorting in front of him. It’s an odd contradiction that I’ve never felt less sexual when holding hands with one of the most attractive men I’ve seen and I even make sure I’m wearing plain underwear on appointment days as some kind of suit of armour against I don’t know what, my own lack of logic, probably.

When I’m not being stretched and manipulated, I have been undergoing laser hair removal and can confidently claim that hearing, “If you can’t remove all the hair from your inner labia in the morning, I’ll have to dry shave you,” kills every last shred of association between genitals with sexuality. During my first consultation I was awkward and didn’t know how to broach the subject of the available levels of bikini line lasering. My self-proclaimed ‘flap zapper’ listed the options from a tidy along the sides to the whole lot from navel to anus like she was reading from a pizza menu.

I relaxed and whispered, “So, you do near the bum, too?”

She said, “Yes, it’s a popular area because it’s hard to shave or wax yourself.”

It was a moment when I realised I’ve never been close enough to a woman’s untended butt crack to have an idea of what’s normal. I thought of my own soap, guess and shave blindly routine and ended up saying to the therapist, “If you’re willing to do it, I’m willing to have it done.”

They were famous last words. After spreading, gelling and marking my arse area with a white pencil, she had the machine set to a moderate level for the first treatment and I felt like I deserved a lollipop after being told I had good pain tolerance. Go me, yet another skill I can’t put on the resume. The reality check was last week when she ramped up the setting — the probe felt something like the pointy end of a mobile phone charger that’s been sitting in a hot oven for an hour before being poked with great force at my bum.

When talking afterwards about the process, The Drummer and the Country Boy stated their views that they hoped I wasn’t having all my pubic hair removed permanently. I told them (separately) I was keeping the front triangle because I preferred to have some options and the main reason for treatment was to reduce ingrown hairs along the bikini line. They seemed glad. Again, these were conversations without an inkling of sexual context and were more about me complaining my hair wasn’t dark enough to achieve a 100 per cent success rate. It appears I’m a dirty blonde almost everywhere.

I truly hope the next time I’m semi-naked with someone the context is sexual and I’m not paying more than a hundred dollars for 20 minutes – both the sports doctor and the flap zapper charge more than prostitutes.